


Isn't it Messed Up, How I'm Just Dying to Be Him?

by i_wont_fall_asleep



Category: Radio 1 Breakfast
Genre: M/M, sexy times in the radio 1 booth, small itty bitty mentions of gryles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_wont_fall_asleep/pseuds/i_wont_fall_asleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nick with his now-trademark quiff in all its gravity-defying glory, thin white tee shirt underneath an artfully-messy blue and black flannel, and absurdly, sinfully tight black trousers. Right before sitting down, he stretched his arms high above his head, raising his shirt and revealing a thin strip of his pale, milky skin and boxers.</p><p>If there was a God, Matt decided, he really fucking hated him right now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isn't it Messed Up, How I'm Just Dying to Be Him?

**Author's Note:**

> s m u t <3

It was a bright and early Monday morning with the soft tweets of blue birds and the sweet laughter of children. The trees stood tall and green, swaying softly in the springtime breeze of London. There was barely any traffic and the pavements were sparse and clean. Everything seemed perfect and unspoiled; however none of this affected the cloudy, stained disposition of a man currently on his way to work.

“Damn sunlight, so fucking bright.”

“Jesus Christ, are these birds always so loud? And where the hell are all these brats’ parents?”

“I swear, if there is a single bloody leaf in my hair I will scream, and what is that stench? It smells like a whore’s perfume, ugh!”

“This is so fucking creepy, where is everyone?”

“Today is shit-pure, utter, unadulterated shit.”

To say that this Monday was not Matt Fincham’s day, would be the understatement of the century. Every step toward the Radio 1 building dropped a small stone in his heart and weighed down his pace. Matt usually looked forward to work, he loved his job and his co-workers.

And maybe that sort of was his exact problem.

Maybe it was his affection for a certain shade-throwing, quiff-sporting, hipster DJ that led to his sour mood.

 

He had struggled against his feelings, honestly, he truly had. He pretended to hold a constant mild annoyance with  _him_  when in reality all he wanted was to be near him constantly. The little shit appeared to crawl inside his every pore, every vein, every muscle until he was so ingrained with him that he was all but consumed but his love. But with all of that, Matt could deal with. He could deal with the painfully-platonic flirting and ridiculous banter and the constant throbbing, thumping of his heart.

But reading from Sugarscape-not even hearing it in person-that the object of his adoration was newly taken by an all-too-familiar curly-haired cunt of a pop star was something Matt Fincham couldn’t deal with. That was just past his point of acceptability.

With a weary and aching heart and what could be classified as just-short-of-a-sneer, he stepped into the radio booth with his colleagues, getting his things properly ready for the show. The others could sense the tense atmosphere radiating off of him, sharing worried looks with one another. But he paid them no mind, just prepping Showbot with perhaps more malice and spite than was quite necessary. Just as he was finishing up the final question with a somewhat nefarious snicker, who should walk in-a few minutes late, no less-but need and lust and desire all rolled into one person:

Nicholas fucking Grimshaw.

Nick with his now-trademark quiff in all its gravity-defying glory, thin white tee shirt underneath an artfully-messy blue and black flannel, and absurdly, sinfully tight black trousers. Right before sitting down, he stretched his arms high above his head, raising his shirt and revealing a thin strip of his pale, milky skin and boxers.

If there was a God, Matt decided, he really fucking hated him right now.

Honestly, did he have to looks so perfect and smiley and beautiful just sitting and chatting and joking? Wasn’t there some sort of cosmic rule against this? Surely, there was a prison somewhere very, very,  _very_ far away that he could be sent to, for doing that awfully wonderful laugh, right?

“You okay there?” his eyes stared earnestly into Matt’s own

“What?” he replied idiotically.

“I was calling you for like five minutes and you were just sort of scowling at the wall.” Nick finished with a small smile on his lovely, pink lips.

Not that the producer would ever get to find out what he could do with those lips.

Stupid Harry Styles.

Remembering that in normal society it was considered odd to just stare at someone blankly in the middle of a conversation, “Oh, fine. Just a rough night is all.”

A devilish look appeared on the other man’s face, “I know exactly what you mean, mate” Added with what Matt deemed an extremely unnecessary wink.

He turned away with a barely contained shudder of disgust and went back to pre-show prep, ignoring blatantly Nick’s further attempts at conversing.

Just because Nick was fucking dating Harry-and also just fucking him- did not mean he had to have it rubbed in his nose.

He did have some self-respect after all.

****

The next few hours passed tensely and with an uncertain edge to it. Everything, the whole show’s dynamics seemed off-kilter and plainly wrong. Nicks efforts at including Fincham into the broadcast were met with short, clipped responses and eventually, he just stopped trying.

The show was ending and for that Matt was thankful, packing up his things early so the moment it finished, he could leave quickly without having to talk to Grimmy, who was currently chatting with the caller on the phone.

“Okay, so we have Rebecca from Manchester with us today, how’re you, love? What’re you up to this morning?”

“Good, thanks. Just uni and homework for me today.”

“Aw, that’s no fun! Well, hopefully Showbot will be able to make your day a bit better, yeah?”

“Haha, yeah.”

“Let’s say hi to Showbot-hello Showbot!”

“Hi Grime-y, hello caller on the phone.”

“How are you doing today, Showbot?”

“Not well.”

“Aw, why is that?”

“Justin Bieber would get it.”

Nick laughed, “Oh, really why is that?”

“Let’s get on with the show, shall we?”

Nick laughed again, “Okay.”

“Question one, true or false: Harry Styles is dodgier than Hugh Hefner?”

An uncomfortable moment passed, with the DJ awkwardly chuckling, “Um, false.”

Before the caller had a chance to answer, a robotic, “the answer is: true” rang out onto the airwaves, Matt snickering softly in the background.

Nick shot him an irritated look which he deliberately ignored.

“Question two, who is least musically talented: (a) PSY (b) Rebecca Black (c) Harry Styles or (d) Cher Lloyd?”

The studio remained silent, just the breathing of the caller on the phone penetrating the eerie stillness, until:

“The answer is (c) Harry Styles.”

Another beat passed, and then a record was playing, and Grimmy was apologizing to the caller and rescheduling for the next day, already turning his attention to Matt.

But when Nick whirled around, the producer wasn’t anywhere to be seen and he couldn’t very well get up in the middle of his show and go hunt him down.

The recorded ended and for a moment the loud, boisterous Grimshaw was at a loss for what to say, before he quickly regained his cocky demeanor, “Oops, finger slipped.”

****

Meanwhile, Matt was currently curled up in a stall in the men’s bathroom, cursing everything in his head:

“Fuck fuck fuck!”

“I’ve ruined my entire career, I’ll be fired.”

“What if I have to move in with my mum?”

“But she uses the itchy laundry detergent!”

“Goddamn you Nick Grimshaw for…for…fuck.”

It was a constant cycle of thoughts that plagued him, as he sat slumped in the small space, cradling his head in his hands.

He checked his mobile, noticing that it was ten minutes past the ending of the show and he would be safe to leave without any confrontation and then he would be free to crawl into his bed with a tub of ice cream, brownies and some tequila. But first, he had to retrieve his bag which he had left back at his desk in his haste to leave the suffocating, prickly room.

He hesitantly approached the door, and breathed a sigh of great relief when it was apparent no one was inside yet. Dashing inside, Matt went to his desk, logged out of his computer, reached down and grabbed his bag, and when he stood, he was staring into the angry eyes of the person he was strategically trying to avoid.

“Um, hello Nicholas.” Fincham tried weakly.

“What the hell was that, Matt?!” Nick spat out.

“I have no idea to what you are referring.” Playing dumb was probably not the best idea but then again, today did not seem like a day of bright ideas for Matthew Fincham.

“I am referring to the fucking  _mean_  Showbot questions about Harry,” there was a pause, the man staring uncertainly, “who I know you know I am now dating.”

Matt rolled his eyes, a spark of his own irritation flaring up, “Oh, yes, everyone has already heard of you fucking Britain’s biggest ‘starlet-harlot’. Good for you, Nick. But I am not going to cater this show to your every whim and passing fancy.”

“That is completely uncalled for, and you know it.” Nick stepped into his space, getting dangerously close.

“Is it really? Because I don’t care. Now if you wouldn’t mind, I have to get going.” Matt made to move around him, but the other man just stepped closer, pushing him to back up against his desk.

“Bullshit. What is your problem? I thought you liked Harry.”

Fincham shrugged, a bit unsure himself this time, the fire leaving him in a gust and just making him tired, “I don’t know. I just think you deserve better.”

A look of shock passed across Grimmy’s features, leaving instead a look of soft confusion, “Like who?”

“Me.”

A silence-something this morning happened to be filled with-covered the two of them like a thickly quilted blanket.

Matt was opening his mouth to apologize for his stupid, rash words when a pair of soft, cherry lips crashed down onto his. It took him a moment to realize what was happening before he pushed himself into the kiss with fervor. Hands twisted into hair and melded onto hips, tongues snuck their way into mouths and ran along deliciously, moans and gasps escaped hurriedly into the otherwise quiet room.

Then, in a blinding moment of clarity, Matt pushed himself away, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Nick stared a little dazed, eyes glassy and lips swollen, “Um, kissing you?”

“What about Harry?”

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Nick now looked downright sheepish.

“What?”

“Erm, I may not actually be dating our dear Hazza.”

“What.” This time it was less of a question and more of a confused statement.

Nick chuckled nervously, “Well, you see, this whole thing was more for Harry’s necessity rather than actual romantic interest.”

Matt scoffed, “Sure, what reason could Harry Styles possibly have for needing a fake boyfriend?”

“To cover up his real one.” Grimmy replied simply and seriously.

“You don’t mean-?”

“-That all of those fangirls have been right about Louis’ and Harry’s more-than-friendly relationship? Yeah. Their management team decided to let Harry finally come out as long as he wasn’t linked back to Louis. Apparently one gay in the band is a risk enough without having two.”

“But Louis hates you.”

Nick only shrugged, “I guess he just hated to see the pain Harry went through by having to hide himself more.” Nick smiled softly, “As much as Louis is annoying and can be a little twat, he really does love Harry. Especially if he is willing to let the world think I’m dating his boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Matt wasn’t really sure what to say.

“Yeah.”

“So, um, kissing?” Apparently articulacy decided to fail Fincham this morning as well.

Luckily for him, however, not much more was needed as Nick pressed his lips against his own once more, tasting pleasantly of tea and mint toothpaste. He was pushed back against the desk again, his hands coming to scratch at Grimmy’s shoulder blades as he pushed a thigh between his two legs, grazing ever so lightly against the blooming bulge in his pants.

A luscious and nearly pornographic moan erupted from the producer, who turned his head away, breathing heavily as Nick continued to kiss up his neck, sucking light bruises onto the skin, “We-we-uh can’t-t. We’re at work. Wha-what about the ne-next show?”

“They’re going to be in the Live Lounge today, we’re okay.” Ending the talking with a sharp bite to his neck, and quickly soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue.

Matt growled and recaptured his lips once again, pouring every moment of sexual frustration he had experienced in the presence of Grimmy, into it. He scratched again at the other’s shirt, this time with the purpose to remove it. Once more, he got the hint and tore of both shirts, also swiftly removing Fincham’s in the process, trailing kisses along his torso until he was completely on his knees in front of him, nipping lightly at his hipbones.

“Don’t tease.” Matt whined.

Nick gave him a devious little smirk before pulling down Matt’s trousers and boxers, letting his erection spring free against his tan, toned stomach. His hands found nothing to hold on his smooth, glass desk as he began to feel soft bites on his inner thighs, carefully avoiding his blatant need.

In an instant of pure, animalistic craving, Matt raked his fingers through Nick’s flawless hair, pulling roughly at him until they were gazing one another in the eye, mutual understanding passing between them. Maintaining eye contact, Nick slowly wrapped his hand around the base of Matt’s cock and leant in, kitten-licking its leaking head before taking as much as he could into his warm, red mouth, eliciting a deep, arousing moan from the other man.

Nick swirled his tongue wickedly and licked a thick stripe along the underneath, causing Matt to pull tighter at the soft, brunette locks, a steady streams of groans and pants leaving his open lips at the sight of Nick’s hand working fervently inside his own trousers, the soft, lean muscles in his arms straining and relaxing with the steady pace. After a few more strokes and viciously fantastic deep-throating techniques, Finchy murmured out an, “about to come” in warning for the other man to pull off, however, Nick hallowed out his cheeks further as warm spurts of come shot down into his mouth, once again maintaining strict eye contact as he swallowed hard.

Matt noticed that Nick’s own pace in his pants had grown sloppy and erratic, obviously incredibly close to his own edge, leaning in to bite at his ear, whispering hotly and gravely-deep, “Come for me baby, come on.”

And that was what it took for him to grunt out and come quickly in his pants, leaving a tell-tale wet spot. The two men slumped against one another, waiting until their breathing evened out and their hearts slowed their hammering.

Nick turned to Matt with a terribly sinful grin, “More butch?”

A loud, booming guffaw left the producer before kissing his DJ’s bruised lips lazily, sighing in a sleepy contentment.

Matt Fincham really loved Monday mornings.


End file.
